Changing Tides, page 4
Though marrying well was the one thing that might help her get out of this mess, those same men who would’ve fallen at her feet before would probably scatter in her presence. Surely by now, they’d heard of her family’s fall from grace.
“Hey, gorgeous.”
Rachel shuddered at the sound of the familiar voice.
“Carter,” she acknowledged. She didn’t need to turn to know it was him.
“Don’t sound so happy to see me,” he said, a smile in his voice.
Rachel exhaled and turned to face him just as he sunk down into the booth beside her.
Carter was a Fleming, which meant his family lived next door to her parents. The same ones who owned half a dozen restaurants in Bayshore. Much to her despair, he also happened to be her longest-standing relationship. She and Carter had dated their senior year in high school and two years post-grad, until she walked up on him bragging to his friends about having a side piece, and she dumped him. Ever since, he’d been a thorn in her side, always trying to convince her to give him another shot, despite the fact that she’d rather eat bullets for breakfast.
But if he was still hitting on her, that meant he hadn’t heard about her family’s plight, which made him one of the few in Bayshore not gossiping about them. Either that or he didn’t believe the rumors. Regardless, Rachel should probably use it to her advantage. She could have Carter Fleming if she wanted him, with his family conglomerate of restaurants on the shore, their fleet of Mercedes Benz, and his bachelor pad overlooking the ocean. He’d pay for her to live comfortably. It would be the life she was accustomed to, the one she’d been bred to live. Then she could forget about bills and gas money and finding a way to feed herself that didn’t involve following her parents to a new city or mooching off her best friend.
It was so enticing she almost considered it.
Almost.
But one look at Carter’s smug face with his perfectly quaffed chestnut locks, and she came to her senses.
“What do you want, Carter?” she asked, taking a sip of her drink.
“Besides you?”
Rachel shot him a dark look, which only made him laugh.
“Nothing. I just saw you sitting here all alone and thought I’d keep you company. Is that so bad?” He nudged her in the ribs. “Come on, it’s rare I see you out alone. Talk with me a bit.”
Rachel exhaled and her shoulders slumped. As much as she didn’t want to hang out with Carter, it meant not drinking alone like a loser.
“Okay, fine. You get one hour.”
“An hour it is.” He grinned.
Forty-five minutes later, Carter had one-too-many beers and quickly went from his typical playful teasing to lewd jokes in a hot minute.
He leaned in close, brushing the hair away from Rachel’s face while she fought the urge to gag at the sour scent of his breath. “Why don’t you come back with me to my place?”
“I’ll pass.”
“Come on, Beaumont.”
“That’s a hard no.” Rachel jerked away from him, but he caught her arm, holding her in place.
“You know you want to. You’ve wanted to get back with me for years now.” His gaze drifted down to her chest and back. “You’re just too stubborn to admit it.”
“You’re delusional,” she choked out.
“Am I?” He smirked. “Or are you just playing hard to get?”
He released her arm and slid his hand under the table, where he placed his palm over her thigh.
“Get off me,” she ground out as she wrenched his hand off of her and stood, but she had to squeeze past him in the booth, and he wasn’t about to let her go.
He blocked her with his body, forcing her back into her seat.
This had been a mistake, she realized. Even in high school, Carter had been an obnoxious drunk. Apparently, not much had changed.
“I know how you girls are.”
“Us girls?” Anger flared inside her chest.
“Yeah.” He leered down at her. “You know, the Yacht Club gals.”
He gripped her wrist so tight, she wondered if he’d leave a mark, then yanked her into his chest. “You try to act all prim and proper like you’re better than everybody else when you all just want the same thing.”
Rachel’s eyes turned to steel as she clenched her hand into a fist. She’d never hit anyone before, but there was a first time for everything, and she had a feeling she was about to get a real-life lesson on the art of the right hook.
“And what is that?” she asked.
“To get fu—”
“Is there a problem here?” a deep voice boomed.
Rachel blinked, craning her neck to see around Carter, toward the sound of the voice to find a man, towering over them. If she had to guess, he was about their age, tall, with sandy colored hair, flecked gold from the sun. He stood so close she swore she could smell the mint on his breath.
His expression was grim as he glared at Carter in challenge. “I asked if there was a problem.”
“No problem.” Carter’s smile turned snakelike as he released her arm, then sniffed the air. “Do I smell fish?” Then he laughed as he turned back to Rachel, giving the man his back as he said, “You can go on back to the bar, Prawn, and mind your own business.”
The mystery man’s gaze flickered to Rachel, who did her best to thank him for his interference with her eyes. But he glanced away too fast, ducking his head before he disappeared back into the crowd.
At Carter’s responding grin, Rachel’s stomach dropped.
She glanced around them, feeling the first trickle of fear. Though she knew Carter well and was fairly confident he wouldn’t take things too far, doubt muddied her confidence.
It was crowded in the Oasis. The sound of laughter and conversation rose above the music. No one would see nor hear her if she yelled for help. Regardless, she remembered her Beaumont spine of steel and swallowed down her nerves, meeting his eye.
“I’m going home,” she said, a moment too soon before she realized she needed a ride.
“With me, you mean.”
“Give it a rest, would you, Carter?”
“Most girls in Bayshore would kill to be in your shoes. I’m prime real estate.”
Rachel barked out a laugh. Typical entitled attitude.
“Too bad I’m not looking to buy what you’re selling,” she snapped. “Now move and let me out.”
“Okay, have it your way.”
Rachel exhaled as relief washed through her.
“But first give me a kiss,” he said, staring at her mouth.
“No.”
“Come on.” He slid a hand around her waist and drew her in before dropping one palm over her rear.
“Get off me!” Rachel pushed against his chest, but not before Carter pressed his wet mouth against hers.
He tasted like beer and cigarettes, and the combination made her stomach churn like an ocean current.
She beat a fist against his chest, but the alcohol must’ve numbed Carter’s senses because he didn’t so much as budge until he was suddenly ripped from her body and out of the booth.
The movement was so fast, Rachel’s vision blurred.
Carter stumbled on his feet, his eyes wide with shock as he whirled toward the man behind him. The man Rachel recognized as the same one from just moments before.
He must’ve stayed nearby, watching for trouble, and she’d never been more grateful in her entire life.
He stepped forward and gripped Carter’s shirt in his giant fist while his eyes turned gray like thunder clouds. His face was a portrait of anger as he spoke through clenched teeth. “Leave the lady alone,” he said, then shoved Carter backward like a rag doll, hitting the tabletop and rattling the glasses.
Carter recovered, springing to his feet faster than Rachel would’ve given him credit for in his condition, and closed the distance between him and the man, his gaze cool as ice as they went toe-to-toe. His cheeks pinkened, and for a moment, Carter looked as though he contemplated throwing a punch, but he must’ve thought better of it because instead, he smoothed a hand down his shirt and sneered before turning around without so much as a glance in her direction.
“This one was free, Prawn,” he said over his shoulder.
Rachel cringed at the insult, but it didn’t faze the man in front of her. He simply turned back to her, his gray-blue eyes softening on her face when he asked, “You okay?”
Rachel nodded, taking him in fully for the first time.
Broad shoulders led to a trim waist. The rolled shirt sleeves of his flannel revealed arms tan from the sun and roped with muscle. And when he smiled at her, it was slightly crooked.
A ball of warmth settled low in her belly. She cleared her throat, slightly embarrassed for staring. “Uh, yeah, I’m good,” she managed, unable to take her eyes off him. “Thank you.”
“Sure thing,” he said, then slowly backed away before turning altogether, leaving Rachel to wonder how in a small town like Bayshore, she’d never noticed him before.
Chapter Six
Rachel hurried after Mrs. Anders—the owner of Pink Owl Boutique—as she stepped outside into the brisk sea air. Up ahead, a giant fishing boat pulled into the harbor where seagulls crowed in a flurry of movement above like a giant thundercloud.
“Please,” Rachel begged, wrapping her arms around her chest to ward off the cold. “I’ve checked everywhere, and no one is hiring. My dad helped you get this place back after your landlord raised the rent. Do you remember that?”
Mrs. Anders flashed her an annoyed look as she fiddled with the thirty percent off sign next to the sidewalk. “Of course, I remember.”
“And my mom and I have shopped here a lot over the years. We’ve supported small business. All I’m asking in exchange is that you give me a job, at least until spring when I can find something else.”
“If I give you a job now, I won’t be open in the spring,” the woman snapped. Then she sighed and turned to face Rachel, her hands on her hips. “Listen, I’m sorry, I really am. You’re a sweet girl. I wish I could help you, but I just don’t have the funds. It’s only me here in the winter. I can’t afford to pay anyone because no one is looking to buy sandals, souvenirs, or trinkets in the off-season. If you check back in June . . .”
“I can’t wait until June,” Rachel cried.
“Well, there’s nothing else I can do,” she said, then turned and reentered her shop. To add the final nail to her coffin, she locked the door to keep Rachel out.
Rachel dropped her face into her hands. How could finding a job be this hard?
She was doomed.
“Hey, Miss?” A craggy old voice called out.
Rachel blinked to find an older man in his sixties, with a bald spot the size of Texas and a thick gray mustache, looking at her with a resigned expression.
“Me?” She pointed to her chest.
He nodded. “I couldn’t help but overhear. . .”
Oh, great. He was probably going to tell her to get lost, stop standing on the sidewalk outside his shop loitering. “Don’t worry, I’m leaving.” She spun on her heel and hurried toward the side street where she parked Andi’s car.
“I can give you a job,” he called out before she got very far.
“What?” She spun around, heart in her throat as she backtracked.
“I have a waitress that goes on maternity leave next week. She plans on coming back, but I heard you talking and . . . well, if you want the position, it’s yours. I should warn you though. The pay isn’t much.”
Rachel covered her mouth with her hands to stifle a yelp of joy as she bounced on her feet. “Yes,” she said, her words muffled by her hands.
“What?” He screwed up his face.
“Yes,” she yelled, then leapt forward and took his hands in hers, jumping while she screamed, louder this time. “Yes!”
The man grumbled, despite the subtle smile, then pulled his hands away.
Rachel chuckled and dropped her arms. “Thank you,” she said in the warmest tone she could imagine.
“Don’t thank me yet. As I said, it’s hard work for small pay. Have you ever waitressed before?”
Uh-oh. There it was. The doomed question. The one she’d gotten all around town for weeks, despite the fact that most places had no intention of hiring her anyway. Have you ever groomed a dog before? Do you have experience with Quicken? Do you know much about computer software? Have you ever worked sales? Whatever the place of business, fill in the blank, and her answer was always no.
So she hedged a little when she said, “Uh, once, a long time ago. In high school.” Like that would excuse her inexperience.
The man grunted. “Be here at six a.m. You’ll have the early shift, and Mandy will train you. She’s the one who’s leaving.”
“Okay, six o’clock. Got it.” Rachel beamed, to which the older man rolled his eyes and turned, heading back into the little restaurant.
Crotchety ‘ol guy, she mused. Yet, despite his Grinch exterior, he gave her a job, which was more than anyone else in town could say.
Rachel clasped her hands in front of herself and turned, staring out into the harbor as the early morning light cast a golden haze over the dark water. A fishing boat eddied in the water while a tall figure untangled a giant fishing net, then began to unload some sort of crates on the dock in front of him.
Rachel cupped a hand over her eyes to ward off the glare of the sun. It was the first time she’d been down on the harbor this early in a long time, and she was suddenly grateful for the view—all the boats lined up along the docks gleaming at first light. Several people bustled in and out of the local shops, but mostly, it was quiet with very little activity, which was typical this time of year. In the spring and summer, these sidewalks and the marina would be teaming with people.
But Rachel no longer had to wish for spring because she got a job. Her very first job, at thirty-seven, no less.
She chuckled to herself at the thought. At least things were looking up.
Rachel stumbled down the stairs, bleary-eyed and in desperate need of strong coffee.
She reached the kitchen, surprised to see Andi already sitting at the little eat-in table, a laptop in front of her, furiously pounding away at the keyboard.
Rachel groaned. “You’re a glutton for punishment if you’re working for yourself and you’re up this early.”
Andi laughed and glanced up at her. “I couldn’t sleep. I woke at four with this incredible plot twist idea running through my head.” She lifted the mug next to her and brought it to her lips, taking a sip. “I knew I’d just lay there writing it out in my head until I got to my computer, so . . .” She shrugged.
Rachel shook her head. She’d never understand the inner workings of a writer, but she wasn’t complaining because Andi’s insomnia meant there was already a pot of freshly brewed coffee waiting for her.
Opening the cupboard, she removed a travel mug, then filled it with the piping hot brew, savoring the nutty aroma.
“Uh, do you know where the to-go mug you took yesterday is?” Andi asked.
Rachel glanced up from her mug and opened her mouth, stumbling over her words a moment before she said, “Oh, I, uh . . . It must be in the car. I’m sorry. I’ll go get it.”
“No biggie.” Andi waved her off, though Rachel suspected it was a big deal; otherwise, why mention it? “Just bring both of them back in today and I’ll get them washed up.”
Rachel offered her a smile but said nothing. It would take some getting used to, living with someone else at a place that wasn’t her own.
“Well, anyway,” Rachel said on a sigh, “I guess I’d better get going. I want to leave early. There’s no way I’m risking being late the first day.”
Andi grinned. “Your first job. How exciting. This is a big deal, Rach. You’re going to pave your own way, earn financial independence all on your own. Are you nervous?”
Rachel swallowed. “I am now.”
“Oh, don’t be.” Andi set her mug down. “You’ll be great.”
“I hope so,” she said, more to herself than Andi, then headed to the coat rack and hooks by the door and grabbed her purse and keys. “Wish me luck.” She glanced back at Andi and caught her roving gaze skating down Rachel’s form-fitting red dress to her four-inch stiletto pumps.
Andi bit her lip. “Uh, where did you say you’re working again?”
“The Sea Oat. Why?”
“Um—”
“I wanted to look nice my first day, present myself in the best possible light, and impress Mr. Boggs. What do you think?”
“It’s, uh—”
“You look great,” Ford said, entering the kitchen from the hallway and flashing a meaningful look to Andi Rachel didn’t understand.
She glanced between them. She hadn’t realized he was there, but she smiled at the compliment.
“Thanks,” she said, uncertain, then shrugged on her coat and opened the door with a little wave.
“Good luck,” Andi called after her.
Chapter Seven
Ten minutes later, she entered The Sea Oat. It was empty, save for a server who was bouncing from table to table, setting out little paper placemats and bundles of silverware wrapped in paper napkins. Entering the room was a woman who looked to be in her late twenties. Based on the large baby bump, Rachel assumed she was Mandy. She wore a pair of black leggings over a baggy t-shirt with a white apron that hung at an odd angle, thanks to her condition.
When she glanced up at the sound of the door, she frowned before she asked, “Are you the new girl?”
“That’s me,” Rachel said, hoping she sounded more confident than she felt inside. Because she was just a tad overdressed and too old to be starting her first job. “I’m Rachel.”
